All That's True

by Jackie Lee Miles

  We have a counselor at school, Mrs. Temple. Whenever I see her in the hallways she has a smile on her face like she has a secret. I’ll bet she has many. She’s very well liked, so she probably keeps everything she’s told to herself. I should go talk to her. Let her know what’s happened to me. See if she can help me get back to being who I used to be. All you have to do is put a note in the box outside her office. Then your homeroom teacher quietly lets you know you have an appointment and you get out of study hall. But then everyone in class automatically knows, so it’s not so discreet, even though the system was designed that way.

  For once I don’t care. What difference does it make what others think about me. I don’t like myself enough anymore to care. The following morning I write my name on a piece of paper and slip it into Mrs. Temple’s box outside her door. Andi St. James, homeroom 309. Urgent.

  I cross off the word urgent and write sort of. In case she’s real busy she can move me back or something, so she’ll at least know I’m considerate, I’m not all bad.

  Maybe there’s hope for me.

  Chapter Seventy-five

  I’m back at Sunny Meadows Nursing home. Katherine has on a pink sweater over a flowered dress. She has just come from the beauty parlor. Her hair is set in little ringlets all around her face. It’s a major improvement over the fluffy halo hairdo she wore last week. I tell her how nice she looks. She pats one side of her head with a shaky hand. It’s so tender to see old people when they do something and their hands shake. It just makes you want to give them a hug or something. I pick up a new book I’ve brought along and she smiles.

  “What are we reading, this week?” she asks sweetly.

  I’ve decided to read James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, because it’s another really beautiful love story and I’m wild about the promise Hawkeye made, “You stay alive, no matter what occurs. I will find you! No matter how long it takes, no matter how far. I will find you.”

  I think of Joe and how he stayed alive on that long march where so many died. More or less, this book is for me and for Joe. Sadly, Katherine can’t remember one chapter to the next, let alone what book we’re reading. I just hold the book up for her to see. “It’s The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fenimore Cooper. It’s sort of a love story. Will this one be okay?”

  She says the same thing she said last week. “Why, yes, that would be lovely.”

  She’s such a lady. She leans back in her rocking chair and closes her eyes.

  I start reading on my favorite part. Major Heyward is accusing Cora of defending Hawkeye because she loves him. And Cora says, “You are a man with a few admirable qualities, but taken as a whole I was wrong to have thought so highly of you.”

  I glance at Katherine. She still has her eyes closed and is slowly rocking back and forth in her rocker. I wonder if she’s thinking about her long-lost love, about Joe, and remembering he got killed, only he didn’t and she didn’t find out until after she married Mr. Wilcox. In those days, one just didn’t up and get a divorce, even if a long lost love came back on the scene. I picture Katherine pining away for Joe, all the while trying desperately to keep it from her poor husband, who probably loved her very much and would have been heartbroken if he’d known the truth. It almost makes a better story than Mr. Cooper’s. I wish he were still alive. I would write to him and tell him I have a great idea for his next love story. It’s bound to be a blockbuster, and all based on fact.

  I keep reading, wondering where Joe is. I stop for a moment.

  “Ms. Wilcox,” I say. “Will Joe be joining us?”

  “Who, dear?” she says and stops rocking.

  “You know, Joe, your—your good friend—”

  “No, I don’t recall a Joe,” she says, and goes back to her rocking.

  So much for this love story—if James Cooper were alive he couldn’t possibly write it. The ending is too sad.

  ***

  Today it’s raining cats and dogs. Well, that’s what people say, but I don’t get it. They might as well say it’s raining forks and spoons or lamps and end tables. It doesn’t make sense.

  Rudy keeps running over to the library windows. It’s like he’s checking to see if the rain has stopped so he can go outside. He’s very smart. Or maybe it’s because he has to make a potty run, which I will eventually have to take him on, regardless of the rain. Rainy Saturdays are always so boring. I’m glad I have to be at Sunny Meadows this afternoon. It takes up most of the afternoon, getting ready, driving there, doing my reading, and then waiting for my mother to take me back home. Beth is busy studying as usual. My mother is busy fluffing throw pillows and straightening the various knick-knacks. Rosa has been dusting and they get moved out of place. If there is one thing about my mother she likes everything back where it started.

  Rosa’s going on vacation next week. In the spring she always goes to Mexico to visit her relatives. She brings us back all sorts of interesting things. One year I got a handmade pottery bowl that had all the colors of the rainbow in it. The pattern on the side was very intricate and I marveled at how someone’s hands could just craft that out of a lump of clay. And then, since all of Rosa’s relatives that I know about are very poor, I wondered how they fired it. Is there a store they go to or something? And what about the cost? Do they charge them a lot of money to do that? So, I really treasure that bowl. It’s meant for the kitchen, but I keep it on my bedroom shelf and put all my favorite treasures in it. Right now that consists of a rabbit’s foot good luck charm, the bow from the corsage I got from the Sadie Hawkins dance, a very good-looking gold button that belongs on something that I think I like, because when I look at it, I can almost remember, but then I can’t, and it makes me sad or even anxious, so I’m saving it until I find out where it’s missing from. Also, I have a hankie that my grandmother gave me that has my initials on it, with crocheted lace all around the edges. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but treasures are hard to come by.

  Bridget’s letters would be there, too, but they don’t fit, so I have them tucked in the top dresser drawer under my panties. I got another one yesterday and I’m worried about her. She sounds more depressed than ever. Her Aunt Ellen is still making her go to the Camp Fire meetings and her cousin Ashley is still mostly making her life miserable. Whenever Bridget invites someone over from school, Ashley insists on being included and her mother insists there is nothing wrong with it, when everybody knows teenagers need plenty of time by themselves with their friends. How can they even talk about boys they like with Ashley sitting there all big ears? The worst part, Bridget said, is that her father has decided that she should finish the school year and then maybe by the time school is set to begin next fall she will be in London. He’s trying to get settled. He’s been doing that for months. How long does it take?

  Earlier he had said she could go over after Easter, but now he’s changed his mind. Bridget’s Aunt Ellen told him how disruptive it would be to take her out of school, which is probably true, but that doesn’t make Bridget feel any better. Plus she’s been away from her father for over six months, so it’s kind of like she’s lost her father, and she’s already lost her mother. And she no longer has Rudy, don’t forget that. Who wouldn’t be depressed? It’s Donna and my father’s fault. I hate them. I fold Bridget’s letter up and put it back in my drawer. Her last paragraph pinches my heart.

  I wish we were together in my old room, just painting our toenails, like we used to. Do you remember that? You had yours all different colors. And mine were lime green.

  The rain hasn’t stopped, or even slowed down a bit when it’s time for my mother to take me to the nursing home. I take Rudy for a quick run, using my father’s golf umbrella that’s stashed in the garage. Rudy’s quite a handful and runs me down the street. I can barely hang on and I almost lose the umbrella, he’s pulling me that hard. He does that a lot when I take him out. When it’s not raining he’s off smelling something with so much determination you’d think he was being paid for it
. Every once in a while he must find a scent that he particularly likes because he’ll spend a lot of time at that spot before moving on. It’d be so neat to be able to feel what they feel, and smell what they smell at least once in our lifetime. But maybe not, because mostly he smells things that don’t look like they’d smell all that good, and some of it is downright repulsive. Why do they sniff at each other’s butts? Dogs are very lovable, but they’re peculiar, too.

  There’s a man walking his little poodle across the street. Rudy takes one sniff and is off running. He bounds away so fast it’s hard for me to keep up with him. I yank on his leash, but it does no good. He’s off and running faster than ever and ends up yanking me. My feet slip out from under me. I land face down on the sidewalk where my forehead smashes into the wet concrete. Blood is pouring into my eyes and down my cheeks. Rudy turns back. In an instant he’s at my side. He licks the blood off my face and whimpers. Dogs know when something’s wrong. And something is definitely wrong. My head feels like it’s been hit with a hammer. The man across the street gathers his little poodle into his arms and comes running toward me.

  “Can you get my mother?” I say, holding my head with one hand. “I live in the big house on the corner.” Blood has filled the palm of my hand. It drips down my arm and onto the sidewalk. “Please hurry.”

  He takes one look at me and goes back across the street. “Stay right there,” he yells. “I’m calling an ambulance. Then I’ll get your mother.”

  An ambulance! My face must be a mess. I’ll probably never look like Beth again. I’m not sure what happened after that. Everything’s a big blur. I do remember riding in the ambulance. And I definitely remember when they stabbed me with an IV needle. I almost climbed off the gurney.

  “Steady now,” the attendant said and patted my shoulder. “It’s a bit of a nasty sting to get it in place, but you shouldn’t feel a thing once I do.”

  “Do you know where my mother is?” I asked.

  “I suspect right behind this ambulance,” he said. “She was by your side when we got to you. You don’t remember that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, you took a nasty bump on your head. Everything’s bound to be a bit jumbled right now, but we’ll have you to the hospital it no time and the doctors will have you all fixed up before you know it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just lay back and enjoy the ride.”

  I close my eyes and try to relax. I don’t want to think about what my face looks like. What if I am maimed for life? What boy will want me now? Then I remember Rudy.

  “Did you see my dog? Did you?”

  “I believe your mother left him with your neighbor.”

  “My neighbor?”

  “The man with the poodle.”

  Right, the poodle—the very one that started this whole thing. Hopefully Rudy and the little guy are having a high old time of it getting acquainted. Something good ought to come out of this.

  ***

  The doctor in the emergency room puts five stitches in my head, but insists on keeping me overnight for observation. By that time my mother has called my father. When he sees me with the bandages on my head he rushes over to my side.

  “Andi sweetheart, are you alright?”

  “She’s going to be just fine,” the intern says. “There’s not much we can’t fix around here.”

  My father isn’t convinced. Concern is stamped all over his face. For a minute I forget how mad I am at him. I tell him what happened.

  “Honey, you shouldn’t be running the dog in the rain.”

  “Well, I wasn’t meaning to run, but Rudy took off and I followed, and then he sort of got away from me.”

  The doctor explains that they are going to keep me overnight. “Just as a precaution,” he says. “We’ll take some X-rays and watch to make sure she’s not bleeding from her ears.”

  “Bleeding from her ears?” my mother says, and looks like she might faint.

  “Bleeding from the ears is indicative of a concussion, but don’t worry,” the doctor says. “Like I said, it’s just a precaution.”

  “Mind if we stay with her?” my father asks.

  “Not a problem.”

  My mother takes hold of my hand. “Would you like that, Andi?”

  Actually I’d like my parents to get back together again. That nice young intern said there wasn’t much they couldn’t fix around here. I want to ask him if he can fix that.

  Chapter Seventy-six

  On Saturday I go back to Sunny Meadows. Joe is sitting in Katherine’s room when I arrive. He gets out of the chair he’s been resting in and gives me a big smile.

  “Well, here she is,” he says, “our very own angel.”

  Joe is holding Katherine’s hand. And it is the sweetest thing, because she is letting him and her cheeks are flushed, which makes it look like she’s blushing or something. Joe asks me about the bandage on my forehead and I give him the short version.

  “Did they take X-rays?”

  I nod my head that they certainly did. “They even kept me overnight,” I say.

  “That’s good. Can’t have anything happen to our girl,” he says, and winks.

  I take The Last of the Mohicans out of my satchel and start reading from where I left off. Joe takes Katherine’s hand again. Ten minutes later he lets go and places his hand over his chest and leans inward against it. “Guess my lunch isn’t agreeing with me,” he says, but I decide at his age any ache or pain should be looked into and run to the nurses’ station.

  “Joe, I mean Mr. Stewart, is having a pain in his chest!”

  Gabby runs down the hall and I’m amazed that she can move so fast. She’s sort of fat and her legs aren’t very long.

  When we get back to the room, Joe is on the floor. There’s a nasty bruise bubbling up on his forehead, so he must have fallen head first out of the chair. Katherine is down on the floor next to him and is cradling his head in her lap. Joe is just smiling up at her. For a minute I’m sure Katherine knows who he is! It makes my heart jump. Two orderlies arrive and place him on Katherine’s bed. Gabby takes Katherine’s hand and gently pulls her to her feet. She escorts her out of the room. Joe stretches out his hand toward her.

  “Don’t go, Katherine,” he says. “Come back to me.”

  And that just does it. I start crying. I can hear an ambulance. It seems like hours before it pulls out in front. They dash Joe to the hospital. Katherine is standing in the hall and there are tears running down her face and she has her palms pressed against her cheeks. I knew it! She remembers.

  And maybe Joe knew. Maybe he could tell by the way she held his hand and looked into his eyes. Maybe that is what is sustaining him now. On Sunday morning before Mass, I call the nursing home and ask to speak to Gabby. I want to know how Joe is doing.

  “I’m sorry, Andi,” she says. “Mr. Stewart never regained consciousness. He died this morning.”

  Now I’ll never know if Joe really knew that Katherine remembered him. If in fact she did. But she must have. She was crying real tears when they wheeled him away.

  ***

  My first session with Mrs. Temple goes like this. She motions for me to sit down. “Wherever you feel comfortable,” she says.

  My choices are a small burgundy recliner, a chair right next to her desk, but not too close, and a loveseat that looks like it has seen better days. That’s another thing people say that doesn’t make sense. How can a loveseat see anything, let alone better days? I choose the sofa.

  “Where would you like to start?” she says. She has the kindest face. It’s going to be easy to talk with her. I knew it. Sometimes you can just tell that about a person. There’s something in their eyes or in their smile that makes you feel warm in the part of your stomach that could just as easily have butterflies.

  I go back to the beginning when me and Bridget found out about my father and Donna in the pool house, but I leave out the part that we watched them over and over. I make it sound like we were just fiddling around
and stumbled on them in the pool house when we walked by the window. I don’t want her to think I’m a snoop before she even gets to know me, which probably I am, because we spied on them all sorts of times. Still.

  I tell her the rest, about the divorce and my father getting married and having a new baby.

  “Mostly, I hate myself,” I say. “And I hate my father and I no longer see him, and that pretty much upsets my mother.”

  Mrs. Temple listens carefully to everything I say, without once interrupting. That’s another reason why talking to a counselor can sometimes be better than trying to talk to your parents. Parents are always interrupting. They can’t help it. It’s part of their parenting routine. You try to tell them one thing and they are already onto the next. And they always want to know why. Mrs. Temple doesn’t ask me why I’m feeling the way I do. She just nods her head and waits until I’m finished.

  “I don’t want to be this way,” I add, “but I can’t help myself. I’ve turned into a completely ugly, hateful person.” That’s when I tell her about the emergency ward and my father coming down and trying very hard to let me know he was very worried, but even so it didn’t change my mind about him—that I don’t trust him, he might be faking his concern. And I’m so scared that he is faking it.

  “Well, Andi,” she says, and puts down her pencil. She has been taking notes. I wonder what she’s written. I hope that it’s not that I’m a bad person. I want to think that maybe I’m still okay.

  “You’ve had a lot on your plate this past year,” she says. “Lots of changes.” She leans over and picks some lint off her sweater by her elbow, then pats the sweater back into place. “And change is sort of like a death. There are many emotions we must deal with in any kind of death. What you’re feeling isn’t hate, Andi. It’s anger. You’re angry with your father for changing everything.”